


Aetate

by greyfortress



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Difference, Drama, Family, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyfortress/pseuds/greyfortress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Human AU] </p>
<p>The first time Arthur realized he’d be seeing Francis more than often is when they met up at the local ASDA. He didn’t understand the fuss about meeting other people coincidentally in supermarkets, and how it was destiny. Oh, but he met Francis before, and instead of being his soul mate, this man was at least twenty years older than him, and his friend’s father. So instead of this being strangely romantic and Romeo’s-first-look-at-Juliet, this was more awkward. </p>
<p>Also, he was sure if Francis saw him, he’d start a conversation. Arthur wasn’t very convinced that he wanted that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART I

[PART I]

                Many people understand the feeling of isolation as they walk into an unfamiliar building. A new surrounding, instead of being welcoming and warm, is more so anxious and made backs hunch slightly, just to let the eyes stray away from someone alien. Though it was difficult to do so at the moment, as Matthew stood in front of his new classmates, the teacher in charge going through the ‘new student’ procedures as his fingers in his pockets pinched at the lint on the fabric to keep himself from being _too_ nervous—he knew that he’d start to feel as if his ribs were being constricted, and his breathing would be quick and harsh—he never enjoyed that feeling.

“Why don’t you take your seat over there, next to—yes, him,” the teacher added as Matthew glanced at the student he’d be sitting next to for the rest of the year, he supposed. Until that person decided that Matthew is too boring, too bland for his tastes, and leaves the cursed seat to find someone better.

He sighed discreetly, under his breath as he finally nodded and walked over to the empty seat, gaze on the floor and not on the curious ones of his new peers. Stopping at the seat, he put his bag down and sat down, scooting forward before quickly flashing a pursed, slightly forced smile at his seatmate. “I’m Matthew,” he introduced, before wanting to use his newly sharpened pencils to stab himself in the eye. The teacher had already told them his name. Ten minutes and he already proved himself to be an idiot.

“I’m Arthur,” the (obviously) older teen said, his green eyes glancing over the side to look at the Canadian, his smile mirroring Matthew’s formal and forced one, “… It’s nice to meet you.”

Still shy as ever, and feeling like he wet his pants in front of his classmates, Matthew responded with a short nod and lets his hands rummage through his bag to grab his pens and a notepad so he could start learning. It was school. It was what he was supposed to do.

Even after half a year, it was what he was supposed to do.

Arthur gives him a nudge, in the middle of class as Matthew is shaken from his little nostalgic trip back to the beginning of the year, and he elbows Arthur with a roll of his eyes, mumbling, “What.”

“You zoned out for a bit there—Jones was walking past, so I saved your arse.”

“Oh. Sorry—I was thinking about when we first met and how horribly awkward it was,” Matthew rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, a small chuckle leaving his lips as he gives the other a look, “I can’t believe you didn’t even care.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Arthur shrugs, biting the end of his pen as he focuses on the white board, the pen leaving his teeth to swiftly scribble down a few notes, “I suppose it was funny. Least I got to know you, right?”

Playing with the strands of his hair—Arthur knew that was an indication that either Matthew was thinking about something, or that he was feeling sheepish—Matthew bit at the edge of his lower lip and answers with, “That’s a good thing. I’m pretty glad about that.”

“Should be,” Arthur replies, his tone teasing, yet he was sure that Matthew was serious. Arthur liked him too, to be honest. Despite how quiet and introverted Matthew was, Arthur still enjoyed his company. They had comfortable silences, and even if it was calm, Arthur wasn’t bored. He liked him, and it was easier to just sit down next to him in the library with a nod, and he could read beside him, without feeling like he was bothering Matthew either.

This time his thoughts were interrupted, as Matthew blurts, “You free tonight?”

“Matthew, I know we’re best friends, but I didn’t know you liked me _that_ way—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Matthew rolls his eyes and gives his shoulder a light punch before continuing, “I’m just asking ‘cause my dad said he wanted me to bring over some friends. And since I’ve been to your place, he thinks it’s only fair if you come over for dinner. If you don’t want to—I won’t, like, force you or anything. My dad’s also a _way_ better cook than you,” he adds, just for good measure.

Taking his phone out, Arthur checks the date and time after giving Matthew a raise of his brow, which Matthew then proceeds to hold his desk and shake it slightly, his eyes wide and his face showing mock horror, indicating that the slight movement from Arthur’s massive brow could create an earthquake. How immature. Arthur can’t help but smile at the childish gesture.

He gives Matthew a nod after putting his phone back into his bag, and he says, “Stop that, it’s stupid,” his accent is strong as he huffs lightly, and continues, “But fine. I’ll come over. If it’s better than my own cooking—I’ll take anything better than my cooking or take out, so.”

Matthew’s eyes practically shine in delight as he instantly purses his lips together so that he won’t look _too_ happy about this. His dad asked him to, and it wasn’t like he wanted Arthur in his house so early anyway. (Even if it seems like it’d be good fun). “… I’ll pick you up after school then.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Arthur’s lips are pursed too.

 

 ***

                Pushing up his glasses, Matthew presses the doorbell and glances over his shoulder to see Arthur looking at the door with determination. He’s nervous and it is _so_ obvious Matthew almost wants to snort, but he is greeted by his father, who—oh god, he looked ridiculous.

“Un _tablier_?” Matthew hisses in rapid French, “Dieu, papa— … C’est mon ami.” 

“I didn’t know you had a friend coming over, you should’ve told me,” Francis answers calmly, keeping his lips curved in a polite and friendly smile as he notices the mysterious friend (whom he had heard could not cook to save his life).

Arthur can instantly see the resemblance between the two, with the same beeline honey shade of blonde hair, the mirroring bright blue irises—yet he can also see the differences after a minute or so, after Francis led them inside, closing the door behind them. The bridge of Matthew’s nose isn’t as high, and the tip isn’t as pointy as Francis’s; he probably got that from his mum then, Arthur thinks to himself as he tries to keep his gaze off of the other’s father. He didn’t want to be _that_ creepy friend. Also, Matthew didn’t seem to have stubble, much less of a five o’clock shadow, whereas his father had a trimmed goatee that faded to his side burns.

“—I’m Arthur Kirkland, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bonnefoy,” Arthur manages to say without sounding too nervous or intimidated, his hand reaching out to give the taller man a formal handshake.

“Please, call me Francis,” the man replies, hand giving his a squeeze and a shake before pulling away and peeling his apron off (after giving Matthew a look), “It’s nice to finally meet you, Arthur, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Christ, dad.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” Francis laughes, the sound low, and brings Arthur’s cheeks to feel slightly more heated than usual. He is quite embarrassed at the moment, but he forces out a small, awkward laugh of acceptance.

Matthew was going to scold his dad later.  He was making this weird already. Great.

“Make yourself comfortable, would you like some wine?” he asks, his smile still plastered on, though he _is_ quite delighted at how he obviously makes Arthur uncomfortable. He doesn’t really care, Arthur seems like he’d be fine with it. If he was Matthew’s age, he’d be able to drink—thankfully in England, the legal age was eighteen. Francis knew that he was never one to follow the rules, but twenty one was too long of a wait.

Arthur gives Matthew a look, who nods encouragingly, and he says, “Um, yes, that would be nice, thank you, Mr—Sorry, Francis.” Arthur is thankfully nineteen years old.

“Why don’t you help me in the kitchen? Matthew can get the table ready by himself,” Francis gestures towards the kitchen, and Matthew gives his dad a glare before sighing and muttering under his breath to his friend, “He’s doing this because I didn’t tell him I’d have someone over _today_. God knows this man needs to plan everything first.”

“It’s all right, I’m like an angel in front of parents, I’ll be cool,” Arthur breathes back, between his teeth as his fingers grab at the edge of his shirt, unconsciously wondering if he’d have to wear an apron like Francis needed to earlier.

Once they both are in the kitchen, Francis ties his hair up and says in a gentle, strangely motherly tone, “Why don’t you help me plate the food up while I go and pour us some wine?”

Arthur nods and does as he’s told; keeping silent and still feeling like he stood out like a sore thumb as Francis continues with the small talk, “How’s Matthew in school then? Has he been bothering you in any way?” he jokes.

“Oh—of course not,” Arthur says quickly, thanking Francis for the glass of wine before taking a cautious sip to make sure he doesn’t seem like the type to drink for no reason (even though he didn’t know Francis was one of those people), “He’s great, really. You’ve got a nice son,” Arthur almost stops himself, but the words slip out of his lips, and his cheeks flush again, lips pursing so hard they form a straight line under his nose.

And Francis laughs.

His cheeks feel like they had been burned by hot coal.

“I-I uh—I’m not trying to—Um—I don’t—” Arthur’s face was practically burning up so much the fire alarms could go off, as he tries to save himself and his comment that was maybe a little too much for a parent to hear.

“It’s fine, I know he’s a nice son. I’ve had him for a while,” Francis jokes again, thinking his jokes are funny, but he knows they aren’t the best, “I’m sure he’s finished up the table, shall we?” he lifts his glass of wine before taking a plate and motioning for the other to follow him.

By the looks of the tip of Arthur’s nose, which is still resembling a certain Christmas reindeer, Matthew can quickly deduce that his father tortured the poor soul. God, Arthur was never going to come here again. Matthew was going to throw his dad’s phone into the toilet tonight. It’s what he deserved for this. As the trio finally take their seats, Francis smiles at Arthur, and with a small hand flick, he says, “Enjoy. Please ask for more wine if you’re thirsty. Or water. Whatever you fancy.”

Tonight, Francis decides that he wants to make something more oriental—if he knew he was having a guest over tonight, he’d be making something less common and would at least have salad—but they’d have chicken chow mein only. With wine. Sometimes Francis wasn’t that great of planning the best meals, but at least they tasted nice and hit all the right spots; he quickly realizes as he hears the small noise of delight that seems to escape from Arthur’s lips as he takes the first bite.

“You like it?” he asks, the corners of his lips curving pleasantly.

“Oh, definitely—it’s lovely. Way better than whatever I was going to have tonight.”

“Which would be curry takeaway. As usual,” Matthew grins, looking down at his meal before poking it with his fork, teeth showing playfully as Arthur rolls his eyes, showing a tiny grin, and tells him to shut up.

The atmosphere is finally comfortable for all three of them, and they eat while Matthew tells Francis about how his day went at school, including how he watched a documentary about how pets had a positive effect on families, once again hinting how he wanted a kitten to join the family. After a few huffs, stubborn comments, and harassing Arthur about his opinion (which he gladly pretended he was too occupied with his food to answer), Francis finally nods and leans back into his chair, sighing, “Fine. Arthur—you’re here to witness this. If he doesn’t take care of the cat, it’s his fault, not mine.”

“You’re going to help too, it’s not like you don’t like cats.”

“I like cats, I don’t like cleaning up after them.”

“I said I’d clean up, you just need to buy the cat food and the bed and the toys—”

“You’re the one who said you’d pay for the to—”

Interrupting the quarreling couple, Arthur clears his throat and lifts his empty glass wine, “… I’d like some more wine please.”

Both of the strikingly blue eyes turn to look at him, and Arthur notices how by the side of Francis’s eyes, his wrinkles show slightly as he smiles and mutters, “I _like_ him,” and reaches for the bottle of Pinot Noir, pouring him another glass as he silently thanked him for stopping the slightly immature and slowly growing argument between the father son combo.

Arthur gulps down a mouthful of wine and blames it for the sudden tugging feeling he feels in his stomach.

 

 ***

                “Well, it was very nice to meet you today, Arthur, I hope I get to see you again soon,” Francis says as he leans against the wall with his shoulder, a leg crossed over at the ankle, his hand still holding the same wine glass. Arthur might need to talk to his friend about his father’s drinking habits. Though Francis seems completely sober so far.

Arthur returns the smile despite knowing that Francis won’t be able to see it, since he was slipping his Toms on as Matthew opens the front door for him to leave. “It was nice meeting you too, Mr. Bonnefoy. And thank you again for the meal.”

“No problem, Arthur, have a good night,” he waves his free hand casually.

Before Matthew closes the door, he says his farewells to his friend, and also gives him a wave—Arthur nods, returns the polite words and finally leaves the house.

“I like him,” Francis immediately tells his son once the door closes, “He seems like a good boy. You should invite him over more often.”

“He seemed to like it after the first half hour. He’s a good friend, dad, don’t fuck this up.”

“I never fuck stuff up. And don’t say that word,” Francis snorts and finishes his glass of wine before ordering, “Also, you’re washing up the dishes tonight. Since I was _not_ informed about Arthur tonight.”

“ _Fine_.”

“Good boy.”

[END OF PART I]

 

[thank you for reading part I! I hope you enjoy the story so far—the relationship will build throughout the chapters (if anyone was wondering). Also, if I got any of the French wrong, I apologize ;; if anyone could perhaps check it for me, that’d be amazing xx I’ll post a new chapter every week (hopefully on Mondays) and at the moment I’m not sure how many chapters this story will be!

Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it and follow the story if you are curious to what happen to the two xx thank you for reading – GreyFortress]

 


	2. PART II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kudos and reviews x

 [PART II]

                The first time Arthur realized he’d be seeing Francis more than often is when they met up at the local ASDA. Seeing the familiar shade of blonde, Arthur tiptoes quietly so that he would be able to look over the fruit rack to see—“Fuck,” his eyes widen as he practically falls back to the ground and kneels down, gulping down his nerves. He didn’t understand the fuss about meeting other people coincidently in supermarkets, and how it was destiny. Like that Michael Bublé music video—what was it again? ‘Just Haven’t Met You Yet’. Oh, but he met Francis before, and instead of being his soul mate, this man was at least twenty years older than him, and his friend’s father. So instead of this being strangely romantic and Romeo’s-first-look-at-Juliet, this was more awkward.

Also, he was sure if Francis saw him, he’d start a conversation. Arthur wasn’t very convinced that he wanted that.

Picking up a mango, he pretends to be very invested in the fruit as his eyes squint and he glances at the side discreetly, trying to find Francis. Who seems to have left his spot. Cursing under his breath, Arthur quickly scans the areas near him—coast is clear. He grabs a few mangos and shoves them into his basket before dashing into the last place he thinks he’d see a Frenchman in; the biscuit isle, of course. Calming down slightly, Arthur lets out a small breath of relief and allows his shoulders to relax.

A part of him wonders why he was taking such measures just to avoid his friend’s father. It wasn’t like Francis had done anything to him, and it wasn’t like he was someone mean. Arthur just didn’t want to go through the whole process of seeing someone, talking to them, and then awkwardly and slowly walking away. He shudders at the thought.

“Cold, Arthur?”

Stiffening instantly at the familiar, smooth sound of _his_ voice, Arthur slowly turns his head to see Francis Bonnefoy standing there, a hand holding a basket filled with groceries, an amused smile on his lips and a small lift of his perfectly plucked left eyebrow.

 _Fuck_.

“… Slightly,” he rasps, his cheeks reddening by the second before Francis laughs and walks closer, and Arthur stays put, knowing that he was pretty much caught, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Really?” the man breathes in audibly, and Arthur’s eyes shoot to look at his chest heave, “Because I was _certain_ you saw me earlier and then—what did you do, grab a fruit and run?”

There were those moments in life where Arthur wished he had the ability to stop time, slap himself twenty times before punching himself straight in the nose so that when time started again, attention would be drawn to his bleeding face instead of what he had said earlier. However, this is reality, and Arthur was about to just nonchalantly punch himself. Time wouldn’t stop, but he was sure that Francis would at least stop asking him rhetorical questions and be worried about his potentially broken nose.

Unfortunately, Arthur was not a masochist, and he looks down at the floor, mumbling something sounding like, “… Sorry that it’s fucking weird seeing ot—god, fuck—dammit.”

Great. Now he swears in front of his best friend’s father, and he’s just laughing. Taken aback by his thoughts, Arthur finally looks up and sees Francis covering his mouth with his hands, his eyes watery from the laughter escaping him. Wheezing after his multiple snorts of laughter, Francis uses his free hand to wipe the corners of his eyes, and says, “N-No—God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—You are hilarious, you know that?”

“How was that even remotely funny!”

“I mean, you pretty much avoided me because I’m your friend’s dad, and it’d be weird to be seen hanging out with a friend’s dad. Or to even be talking to him without Matthew being around,” Francis grins as he watches Arthur’s jaw drop just an inch, “I’ve been a kid once, I know how it feels.”

“… With all due respect, Mr. Bonnefoy, I am _not_ a kid.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. I’m turning twenty next year. April.”

“Oh, you’re _so_ old,” the father teases, his lips still curved in a smile.

A huff leaves Arthur’s lips, and he rolls his eyes before grabbing a packet of Hobnobs, and putting it into his basket, ignoring the others comment. He was close enough to Matthew, he didn’t have to please Matthew’s strange and annoying dad. How did Matthew stand him sometimes? He had a sharp tongue.

This didn’t seem to stop talking, Arthur realized, as Francis starts to follow him, yapping along the way, “So what are you buying? Making dinner for the family tonight?”

Shaking his head, Arthur decides that he would rather stay polite than throw a packet of Jacob’s Cream Crackers at the others head, “For myself. I live by myself in an apartment.”

The atmosphere changes almost instantly, and Arthur has to clear his throat a bit to help himself feel less awkward at the moment. “Really? And your parents are okay with that? Just living by yourself—” Francis asks, looking curious, yet Arthur could tell, by the slightly furrowed brows, Francis was worried.

“They work a lot, so it’s already like living alone, I’m used to it—And I get to cook my own shitty meals. Pardon my French. Pardon that too.”

“It’s alright. I swear in front of Matthew all the time. He probably picked up all his curses from me,” he says proudly, a smile on his lips before it quickly fades, “… It’s not that great, but I can’t help it,” Francis lets Arthur see a sheepish shrug.

“I think it’s a good thing. Least you’re not forcing him not to. He can—say the things he really wants to. Swearing’s not that bad,” Arthur replies nonchalantly, appreciating how Francis would actually give Matthew the freedom to say what he wanted. His parents always scolded him, even if he was just saying something stupid like—twat or something like that. It wasn’t that nice of a word, he admitted unwillingly in his head.

“So what’re you going to make for dinner tonight?” Francis changes the subject, looking at the others basket, and sees the packet of Hobnobs, a few chocolate bars, a packet of frozen chips, and another packet of frozen sausages. How healthy.

“Sausage and chips,” Arthur answers casually, though the underlying hint of disappointment was quite obvious to Francis. Poor thing was eating the worst foods he could possibly eat.

“No vegetables…?”

“I’m not good at cooking vegetables,” Francis also knew Arthur was trying to hint at his hate for greens in general.

The man keeps his mouth shut as he nods slowly, wanting to say a few words about how vegetables were actually good for the body, but a part of him is sure that Arthur knows this very well already and is just blatantly disregarding it. To each their own, he supposes, as he glances at his watch and sends Arthur a friendly smile, shrugging, “It’s not that difficult.”

Mirroring his actions, Arthur opens his mouth only to be interrupted by his phone’s audible vibrating in his pocket, “Excuse me,” he says, pulling the phone out to check the message from his mother. She wouldn’t be coming home tonight. To be honest, he isn’t surprised.

“Everything alright?”

He looks up from his phone and plastered on a smile, nodding, “Yea. I should be going though.”

“Well, I’ll see you some other time then, Arthur. Have a good evening.”

“You too, Francis.”

The two of them walked their separate ways in ASDA, Arthur looking over his shoulder to check if Francis left already. He did.

 

 ***  

           

                Francis was very concerned. He never knew hockey could be so deadly, until he received a call from the school telling him that Matthew had been hit by a hockey stick to his foot. Apparently it was hard enough to fracture some of the bones there, and now Matthew was in the closest hospital, getting a cast and a free pass out of lessons for the next week. Francis reached over to hold his son’s hand gently, making sure not to wake him up from his soft slumber; he had enough things to be annoyed about already. Matthew shifted in his sleep and yawned, turning slightly before wincing at the pain coming from his left foot. Feeling a small lump in his throat, Francis stroked the back of Matthew’s hand, wanting to reassure him silently.

He only stopped thinking about his son once the door slid open with a small noise, and turned around to face Arthur, who gave him a nod before walking in further after he closed the door, keeping quiet.

“I heard about the accident. I rushed over as quickly as I could,” he whispers, standing next to Francis.

“Thank you,” he replies, looking up from his seat to give Arthur a small, tired smile, “I’m sure he appreciates it. Even if he’s sleeping right now.”

The corners of Arthur’s lips hitch in a silent laugh before putting both of his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling slightly uncomfortable with the fact that he was technically alone with his sleeping friend and that friend’s very talkative father. Whom he did not know very well, but the other seemed to try very hard to change that. He takes a step away from the older man, discreetly, covering up the act by touching the edge of the hospital bed, pretending to check out the bed. Thankfully, Francis doesn’t notice, and is still holding Matthew’s hand. The silence is broken as Francis finally spoke.

“He won’t be going to school for a week—at least a week. He needs his foot to heal a bit first, then he’ll need his crutches and—,” He sighs, “He’s going to be so upset.”

“He’s not going to like missing all those classes,” Arthur mutters to himself, knowing that Matthew had been a little stressed out about school lately with all the new topics he had to learn.

“Arthur, actually—” “I was thinking—”

Their eyes meet, and Francis chuckles, waving his hand lightly to signal that it was alright for the other to speak. Biting at the corner of his lower lip, Arthur feels slightly embarrassed that he interrupted the other, but he continues, “Sorry. I was thinking if Matthew needs anything from school I could just give it to him after school. I mean, I don’t live too far away, and it’s along the path I take anyway, so I reckon it won’t be a hassle. And I think Matthew would like that.”

“…” Francis is slightly taken aback, and his eyes widen, “You would do that?”

“He’d do the same for me.”

Francis nods; it sounded like something his son would do, “That is very kind of you.”

Arthur shrugs nonchalantly at his reply, a tiny, but evident smile on his lips. Francis reaches over to give his arm a little squeeze as he said, “Thank you.”

They spend their time talking, quietly, careful not to wake Matthew once again. There is some laughter over sharing memories of Matthew being a baby and what he had done. The fact that his first word was ‘shave’ cracked Arthur up—“Hey, just because my ex-wife kept making crude comments about how she didn’t like my stubble! I wasn’t about to get rid of it for her!” Francis replies with a scoff; Arthur covers his mouth to stop himself from becoming too loud. Matthew opens his eyes a few minutes later, yawning again before glancing over at the two who are still whispering.

He greets his father with a smile who asks him how he was doing, and to his friend who grins at him and tells him about the blackmail material Francis had given out. Matthew rolls his eyes, lips curled upwards.

He decides to keep to himself that he was awake since the moment Arthur entered his room.

 


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be late due to A2 exams   
> wish me luck x

[PART III]

                Drinking was never Arthur’s forte. The loud yelling, screeching girls, tough-guy boys—he rubbed his eyes as he woke up in a state. Groaning, Arthur tries to remember what had happened last night, and he stretches on the foreign bed he’s on, grazing over the body next to his. He stiffens. Glancing over, his brows raise at the sight of Oscar, one of the men he met last night. It seemed that the two of them were naked. Reaching to pull the duvet higher to check, he closes his eyes and swears under his breath. So, there was that.

He kept doing this to himself. This was the second time this month that he hooked up with someone he was never going to meet again in his life. Not to mention both times had been with men. Arthur always knew there was something different about him after none of his relationships seemed to work, and how his eyes would follow his girlfriends’ brother instead of them. So what if he was gay? So what if he enjoyed sex? Not like anyone would care anymore. Public schooling in England was more open-minded than private, and Arthur already had a few rumours about his sexuality, but he never mentioned them. There was no shame in being slightly afraid of coming out to his family and friends.

Oscar was still asleep.

Sliding out of the bed slowly, Arthur picks up his clothes from the floor and quickly tiptoes to the bathroom where he dresses himself and contemplates on what he was going to do about the situation. Oscar seemed like a nice guy, and a pretty good fuck. Shaking his head, Arthur washes his face and lifts his arm to give himself a whiff before sighing in relief. At least he didn’t smell like B.O. Or sex. Deciding to leave without a word, Arthur grabs his bag and leaves the house at eleven. He’d get some lunch later.

Phone buzzing loudly, he hisses at the sound, his headache ringing along with the noise, “For fucks sake— What?” Arthur snaps, answering the call.

“Who took a shit in _your_ cereal this morning, Jesus.”

“I haven’t even had cereal yet, that’s probably why, Al,” Arthur grumbles into the phone, stopping in his steps and running a hand through his hair, “What is it?”

Alfred always seemed to have issues that either Arthur or Matthew had to solve. The three of them were good friends, but Alfred confided in Arthur more due to their relationship as cousins. Twice removed. Arthur was never too thankful about it, or at least he never truly showed it, especially at times like these. When Alfred was nothing more than a pain in the arse.

“Well. You see. Remember when I said I was going to go over to Matts to get my jeans?”

“You left them there?”

“Yea, we went swimming, but that’s not the point. I can’t go there anymore…?”

Arthur swears vulgarly, causing an old lady who passes by to gasp in horror, and he quickly apologizes to the woman, “—Alfred, you cannot expect me to go there!”

“But—but I’m busy!” The whining never seemed to end.

“I’m going to hang up.”

A gasp, “Arthur, don’t you even dare—I’m with Maddie,” Alfred whispers into the phone, “ _The_ Maddie.”

Now that was a surprise. Arthur checks the time and frowns. It seemed too early to be stalking someone, but hey, he wasn’t one to judge. Not yet. Alfred’s small crush on the petite Canadian girl had grown in the span of two months, where he constantly whined about her and her cute butt. His words.

“… Oh.”

“Yea, so _now_ you know why I can’t leave,” Arthur can practically hear how smug he was.

Arthur sighs in defeat and nods, “Fine. I’ll get your fucking jeans.”

“I love you, man, I’ll grab them in school tomorrow!”

After the other hung up, Arthur stares at the phone for a few prolonged seconds. Alfred was, assumingly, about to get himself a girlfriend, whilst Arthur was still lonely. He didn’t understand why it was so infuriating and difficult to get himself someone he actually enjoyed being with for more than two hours maximum and that he liked to look at. Either Arthur just had terribly high standards, or—well. He just couldn’t choose from all the men. The handful of men that were attracted to him and wanted to date him. And by handful, Arthur meant zero.

The statistics were against him, so he decided to think about how he was going to get to Matthews instead of bringing himself down with the prospect of being single forever. Thankfully, there was a bus nearby that would take him to the Sainsbury a few blocks down Matthews’s house. It took at least half an hour and three quid, but he was finally at the front door, still in the clothes he was in the last night. He probably looked like a hot mess.

 

***

 

                Francis confirms it once he opens the door for the other.

“Arthur!” Francis proclaimed, scanning him head to toe, “… _Arthur_.”

“I’m sorry to intrude, but I’m here for Alfred’s jeans, he forgo—… Is something the matter?” Arthur feels slightly self-conscious as Francis seems to be trying hard not to laugh.

“It’s nothing. Just that I hope you used protection last night,” Francis grins, letting Arthur inside before telling him.

Face flaming in embarrassment, he turns, feeling like he almost breaks his neck at the impact, and sputters, “—Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t be so flustered, teenagers will be teenagers, you look thoroughly ‘shagged’, as the English would say.”

Arthur was rendered speechless. Did the man have no shame? Standing there with his jaw dropped slightly, Arthur stares at Francis like he had just—implied he had a good night. “… I,” Arthur covers his cheeks, “… Do I really?”

“Marvelously so,” Francis replies happily, giving a nostalgic sigh, “Ah, what I’d give to be young again. Why don’t you freshen yourself up here and take a nice shower—we have extra towels in the bathroom. Matthew’s in his room, probably still sleeping, so I’ll wake him up later when you’ve finished, okay?”

“I… Okay...?” Arthur answers, still out of the zone as Francis pushes him upstairs to get him to realize he needs to reach the bathroom in order for him to actually have a shower.

Not that it wasn’t already terribly embarrassing and awkward to have your best friend’s father practically praise you for the sex you had last night. The shower was long, and needed, as Arthur used most of his time just standing in the middle of the shower, contemplating on how he would murder Alfred in due time.

Stepping out of the shower afterwards, he ruffles his hair, speckles of water gracing the mirror in front of him as Arthur stares at his reflection. Despite the fogginess of the mirror, it was still clear as day that Oscar had been using his time well last night, and so had Arthur. The scratch marks on his back and the multiple love bites around his neck and collarbone were definitely quite the sight. He quickly dries himself off, his back to the mirror.

Arthur quickly steps down the stairs after he dresses himself and, thankfully, finds some cologne in his bag, and sprays himself top to bottom. It was a little too much, but he didn’t care. It was important. Once he was downstairs, he found his friend, who was sitting on the couch handling his phone.

“Alfred couldn’t make it,” Arthur says, plopping himself down next to the other with a sigh.

“Yea, I heard. He texted me earlier about the whole Maddie thing. Who would’ve guessed, right?” He replies, chuckling at the thought.

“I know, it’s a little surprising, to be honest.”

“Well, I mean, it’s a little surprising you had a one night stand.”

Arthur’s jaw drops and he felt his face flame again, the familiar sensation running through his body rapidly as he looks over his shoulder to see—“That _bastard_ ,” Francis had escaped the scene.

Covering his snicker with his hand, Matthew grins, “Yea, he gave me a hint or two and I managed to find out why Arthur Kirkland was taking a shower in my house at such an early hour.”

“It was _twelve_.”

“It’s a fucking Sunday, we all need to sleep.”

Guess he was right.

“… I can’t believe he told you,” Arthur mutters, rubbing his face in the process of covering it in embarrassment.

Matthew shrugs, continuing to check his Instagram feed on his phone, “I mean, it’s pretty obvious with all those hickeys on you. There are like… Three I can see on your neck.”

His hands now cover his neck.

“C’mon, everyone has sex,” Matthew flicks his wrist like it was absolutely nothing.

“Not when it’s—” Arthur snaps, but stops himself before it was too late.

His tone practically woke Matthew up, as Matthew puts his phone down, and says, “… Now I’m curious.”

Arthur turns silent. He looks down at his hands that are now on his lap, and he breathes in deeply. It was certain that Matthew would never judge him; whether it be his sexuality or the amount of hickeys he had from a one night stand. It was just so difficult to word it when his mouth wouldn’t even dream of opening, and his lips would be pursed tight.

“I—Fuck. Matthew, promise you won’t tell anyone,” He isn’t looking Matthew in the eyes.

“Shit dude, alright, alright,” Matthew reassures, wondering if he should put an arm around Arthur, since he looked like he was about to confess to having sex with his own mother.

He takes a deep breath.

“I’m gay.”

“And?”

“… Wait, what? Matthew, that’s it. I’m just… Gay as fuck, really,” Arthur is slightly jumbled at the others reaction, to say the least.

“No, it’s just that… I kind of knew? Is that bad?” Matthew’s tone is sheepish as he shrugs.

Arthur didn’t know what to say. His brows are furrowed in confusion, and his lips are parted as he tries to find the words, “It’s not bad—I’m just—What, you knew?”

“I mean, Dad’s gay too, so I guess I can like… Sense a vibe? I’m not sure, maybe it’s like the rare Straight-Person-Gaydar, you know? Arthur? Are you alright?”

His world feels like it stopped for at least a full minute. Boxes in his brain were trying to connect the words from Matthew’s lips to his mind as his lips part in disbelief, “Francis is gay?”

Matthew nods nonchalantly, “I thought it was obvious. With his Dolce & Gabbana shoes and all that—”

“Dolce & Gabbana shoes don’t make you _gay_ ,” Arthur argues, “It just makes you rich!”

Laughing, Matthew shrugs again and raises his brows at the other, “It was a shitty example, I’ll give you that. But hey, least you know you’re not alone in this. I’m pretty sure you can talk to him about it…?”

“Not like that’s awkward at all. Talking to your best friend’s dad about how you prefer cock.”

“Hey, it was just a suggestion!”

Arthur snorts and gives Matthew a look before the two of them burst into laughter, Arthur clutching his stomach as Matthew’s eyes are closed tightly as he loses his breath. Their laughter cease as the two of them catch back their breath, and Matthew wipes at his eyes gingerly, “Amazing. Absolutely amazing.”

Sighing lightly, Arthur presses his palms onto his thighs and he smiles to himself. Matthew accepted him, and the weight on his shoulders finally left—he could practically see it fly away on glowing wings. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Not freaking out.”

“What’s worth freaking out about?” rings the familiar voice from behind them, and the two turn to see Francis with a curious raise of his brow and a pair of folded jeans in his hands.

Matthew rolled his eyes; he was always so nosy, “Nothing, Dad.”

Still shocked by the facts Matthew told him earlier, Arthur stares at Francis for a few long seconds before their eyes met, and his cheeks burn in embarrassment. Nothing worse than being caught watching.

He hands the jeans to Arthur nonchalantly, still with his suave flick of the wrist, and Arthur pulls the garment close to his chest, “Alfred’s jeans—washed and dried by yours truly.”

“… Thanks,” he manages to say, and left his seat, “I—I ‘ll be taking my leave then. Thank you for the shower, Mr. Bonnefoy.”

“Please, call me Francis.”

Never in a million years after today.

Ignoring the older man, Arthur says goodbye to his friend and quickly paces himself out of the room, and out of the house. He can still feel the warm sensation in his freckled cheeks, and he uses his free hand to give one a small pat, trying to calm it down. Calm himself down.

It’s not the best moment when your best friend’s very attractive, late-thirties father turns out to be a raging homosexual.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay but i'm finally home and able to actually update x thank you for waiting and for the kudos x greyfortress

PART [IV]

                “You free next week… Wait,” Matthew takes his phone out to check his calendar, brows furrowed as he focuses on the dates, “… Sorry, next _next_ week Thursday?”

Matthew was finally back in school, leg healed at least 90%, but insisted on bringing the crutches to school. It gave him the attention he lacked. It was also his birthday in two weeks, so he didn’t want to risk twisting his foot, or worse, breaking it again. It was better to be safe than sorry.

Arthur glances over at him and whips out his small Moleskine diary to check if he has plans. “… Well done, Matthew, I _am_ free. What’s the occasion? I do _not_ want a revision session if that’s what you’re planning.”

“It’s my birthday, you ass, check Facebook once in a while, would you.”

His lips part as he registers the word ‘birthday’ and immediately apologizes for his reaction, “Oh, shit, right!” Arthur grins and gives Matthew a light nudge of affection, “Finally catching up. Nineteen.”

Matthew’s hands tighten around his crutches as he stretches his neck to the side, acting nonchalant when in reality he is more than excited to host his birthday party. Francis did not mind having thirty or so hormonal teenagers in his house, if he was upstairs and completely not involved. His son was turning nineteen—Matthew also was given a nice, hearty sum of cash to buy drinks and pizza.

Francis only pretends not to know about teenagers drinking habits. He also will not clean puke the next morning.

“It’s going to be at my place, Dad’s going to be out, but he’s buying all the drinks and—I’ve already put the event on Facebook, so,” Matthew wiggles his hips, giving away his excitement, “It’s going to be _crazy_.”

“I hope not,” Arthur mocks, “We all know what happens to drunk Matthew.”

“We also know what happens to drunk Arthur.”

He flips Matthew off— “Fuck you,”— and laughs.

Using one crutch to give Arthur’s shin a poke, Matthew rolls his eyes and hops over so he can start walking alongside the other, “C’mon, we’ll have fun. You _have_ to come. It won’t be fun without you.”

Swinging his bag over his shoulder, Arthur eyes him and chuckles, “And here I thought _I_ was the homosexual.”

It was easy to speak freely about his sexuality now. One, his best friend knew, and once Matthew was enlightened by the information, Arthur decided to tell Alfred. Who decided to tell the entire school via social media. If he remembered correctly, the Tweet was—

‘Hooking Arthur Kirkland up. Be hot. Be sexy. Have a dick. #SorryLadies #HesHomo’

Arthur gave him a black eye the next day, but never mind that. The news went around quicker than light, and it didn’t take long before some other students came out of their own closet. He even got a few secret admirers—and a handful of homophobic bastards that gave him more shit than usual.

At least he was out. That was what mattered.

“You know. Maybe you can get some during the party,” Matthew suggests as they leave the premises, and Arthur snorts loudly in reply, “I’m serious!”

“And I’m seriously doubting that,” he rolls his eyes, hands now in his pockets to pick at the insides with his fingers nervously.

To be honest, he isn’t very sure if he is ready to go full on public with his sexuality. Yes, everyone knew, except they never see him in action. When he’s truly on top of another person, kissing the life out of them, or if his hands are up a tight shirt, back arched—Arthur knew how he was like when he was a little intoxicated. He’d been to parties. He’d done shameful things.

What if Mr. Bonnefoy sees?

He feels his throat go drier by the second, and he coughs, swallowing before giving Matthew a sigh, “I mean, whatever happens, I’ll just let it happen.”

“So you’re coming?”

“… You _really_ think I’d miss your birthday? I thought we were ‘bros’,” Arthur slurs, his last word mimicking the Canadian accent Matthew has.

Ignoring the mild insult, Matthew nods smugly, “Yes. Yes we are bros. Remember to go on Facebook and check the damn event though.”

“Yes, yes,” Arthur flicked his wrist at the other aloofly as he finally arrives at his bus stop, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Walking away, Matthew holds up his crutch for a long wave before he is finally out of sight, and Arthur leans against the bus sign. He sighs. Taking out his phone, Arthur presses onto the Facebook icon and presses ‘Going’ to the new event Matthew created.

The only reason he doesn’t hesitate is because he knows Mr. Bonnefoy will not be there.

 

***

 

                Francis leaves ASDA with a bag of groceries in his hand, the other one busy rummaging through his front pocket to find himself a cigarette. Is he really that addicted that he can smell the nicotine despite not lighting the cigarette he holds between his fingers—his nose twitches sensitively.

“Oscar, please, do you really want to do this here?”

The familiar voice makes Francis turn, and he sees Arthur and, he assumes Oscar, speaking to each other. They don’t seem too happy. The two of them are smoking. So it wasn’t his cravings. The two haven’t noticed him yet; Francis puts his cigarette in his mouth and uses his hand to pretend he’s covering his eyes due to the sun. Unfortunately it’s seven in the evening.

“So what are we, Arthur, we’ve been seeing each other for a month now and—”

Arthur sounds exasperated, and he breathes out loudly, “Just because we’ve been ‘seeing’ each other it doesn’t mean we’re together. You’re sounding really clingy and it’s pathetic, really.”

Wincing at the harsh words, Francis stays near the trash can to light his cigarette, whilst eavesdropping. He always forgets curiosity killed the cat.

“Arthur, I just really like you, and I want us to be official,” Oscar reaches out to take Arthur’s free hand, holding it gently, and Arthur allows him to, “Is it really that bad? Dating me?”

“… I’m just not ready for a relationship right now, I’m sorry,” he replies in a small voice, the guilt evident.

Oscar sighs, and Francis breathes in the nicotine before finally leaving the scene, walking to his car. He wasn’t shocked that Arthur was gay, it was a little surprising, but he didn’t mind it. He should have left earlier. He doesn’t feel too good for either of them.

Putting the groceries in the trunk, Francis glances over his shoulder to see that Arthur is left alone, still holding his cigarette. He stubs the end of the cigarette on the nearest wall and drops it to the floor before leaving the car park. Francis keeps an eye on him.

He also feels absolutely horrible.

Following him out of ASDA in his car, slowly, he catches his attention with a honk of his horn, making Arthur jump in surprise. His eyes widen at the sight of the car and Francis, and he licks his lips nervously, thoughts running through his head. Had he seen Oscar? Was he in ASDA? What was he here for?

“I’m here to give you a lift home, silly,” Francis says, window rolled down, and Arthur realizes he had been speaking.

“—Oh, um—That’s alright, I can take the bus,” Arthur feels his heart drop; he knows.

Francis sighs, “… I feel like you need a nice ride home, Arthur.”

“… Did you see everything?” he asks.

He doesn’t lie, “I don’t know. I saw the end part, if that counts.”

Staying silent for a few seconds, Arthur nods and goes to the other side of the car, opening the door and sliding into the passenger’s seat next to Francis. He closes the door and covers his face with both hands, “Please don’t tell Matthew.”

“That you prefer men?”

“That I’ve been seeing Oscar—the one earlier,” Arthur admits, “He knows I’m gay.” _I know you are too._

Francis stares at the wheel in front of him, both hands on it as he finally starts the car, “I won’t. But you seem a little upset,” which seems to be an understatement from the looks of Arthur’s watery eyes, “… Do you want to talk about it?”

His hands itch to reach over and tell Arthur everything will be okay as he hears a small, desperate sound, and Arthur covers his face, “Not really. To be honest, I really would rather keep this to myself.”

Pathetic fallacy isn’t on Arthur’s side as the stars are shining brightly in the dark sky, and he wipes at his now dry eyes to look out the window as Francis drives silently beside him. Arthur feels as if he is being a little too dramatic, and he turns to look at the older man, and starts speaking, “He wants us to have a relationship, but I don’t think I have feelings—those feelings for him.”

Francis stays quiet, but nods, signaling his focus.

“I mean. Just because I’m sleeping with him doesn’t mean I like him. I don’t think he—understands that. Yet. I reckon,” he mutters, eyes back on the road, “I just won’t do it anymore. I don’t want to lead him on. It’s just painful for the both of us, isn’t it.”

“… You’re very mature for your age, Arthur,” Francis replies, a small smile on his lips.

Laughing for the first time in hours, Arthur shrugs, “I’m talking to my best friend’s dad about my homosexual relationship issues. I think I’m being a fucking idiot. Pardon my French. No offence.”

A chuckle leaves his lips and he only gives Arthur a grin, adding, “A little bit. No offence,” he continues, more seriously, “But you’ll need someone to talk to who understands what you’re going through. I’ve been there.”

His hands tense at the words, and Arthur picks at his black jeans, suddenly very interested in the fabric as the images go through his head. Francis holding his lovers hand, smiling, lips touching in a sweet kiss, and his cheeks burn—he reaches up to give himself a little slap to keep himself in control.

“… Can I ask you something personal?”

Francis blinks in surprise and nods, “Go on.”

“What happened to you and your wife?” _Did you know you were gay when you were married?_

There seems to be a slight jolt in the car as Francis is surprised at the question, but his face surely doesn’t show the emotion, “It was a… difference in my attitude towards her. And hers towards mine. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

He shakes his head, slowly, almost wondering if he should just drop the topic. But he was the one who mentioned it.

“Long story short, she cheated on me, and when I found out I wasn’t upset. I was actually relieved,” he shifts his hands on the wheel professionally, checking his rear view mirror before taking a turn, “Turns out I didn’t love her, and she didn’t love me as much as she thought she did—well, marriage just wasn’t for the both of us. Then I found out my teenage homosexual tendencies were my true… identity? It’s hard to explain. But maybe you’ll understand. Not with the marriage thing.”

“… Um, turn left,” Arthur blurts, and Francis nods, doing as he’s told.

The silence is, ironically, booming in Arthur’s ears, and he licks his lips before finally saying, “So… Are you single now?”

Francis nods.

And Arthur’s shoulders sag as he sighs, then covers his mouth with his hand. He can’t help adding, “Mhm. Really?”

“Yea, I’ve been on a few dates but I’ve never really brought any… Home to see Matthew, you know? But I am looking for someone. Maybe one day.”

Arthur grins to himself, fingers still covering his mouth, and he shrugs, “Mm. Maybe one day—ah, here it is.”

Stopping the car, Francis watches Arthur as he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door to finally escape, “I’ll see you some other time, Arthur. Have a good night.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bonnefoy.”

Arthur doesn’t know why he can’t stop smiling. _Maybe one day._

 


	5. PART V

PART [V]

The mirror’s reflection of himself makes Arthur bite his lower lip in frustration, and he groans before turning around and pulling the—which one was this one—ah, the third casual T-shirt he tried on minutes ago. He isn’t ever sure of his taste in fashion, even if he constantly gets glances here and there on the street. It could either be positive staring or something very different. Sighing in defeat, Arthur decides on a pair of slightly-tighter-than-normal distressed jeans and a loose fitted white tee. Dark maroon boat socks and a pair of dirty, five year old Converses complete the look, and he takes one last look in his mirror before checking his watch.

Guess he’ll have to go fashionably late, since he’s already ten minutes off schedule. 

He sends a quick text to Matthew to inform the birthday boy, but his mind sticks to a certain thought, and Arthur rolls his eyes. Mr. Bonnefoy wasn’t going to be at the party. Matthew mentioned that days ago, weeks ago, and yet Arthur was here, disappointed. He didn’t spend half an hour picking a shabby outfit for another person; all for himself. He denies everything. 

Arriving at the house later than usual, he’s greeted by Maddie after he rings the doorbell. Before he’s even uttered a friendly word, Maddie is pulled away by an obviously tipsy Alfred, and she giggles, waving a hand at Arthur apologetically. He scoffs and looks away, already dreading what he’ll see later from the two of them.  
He’s strangely jealous of the young lovers, but he moves away to find his friend, thankfully, not pissed in the kitchen. 

“Hey,” Matthew smiles at the sight of the newcomer, “Nice to see you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Arthur mocks, feeling relieved to see him, “Got you a pair of socks,” he lies, handing the birthday boy a little wrapped gift. 

One of Matthew’s eyebrows are raised in amusement as he shrugs and mutters, “Could always use a nice pair of socks.” 

He knows Matthew will love the new Giorgio Armani purse. He keeps quiet. The music fills their silence until Matthew nudges Arthur and says, “What’s the goal tonight?” 

“Is there ever really a goal, Matt?” 

Shrugging, he answers nonchalantly, “I still haven’t seen you make out with a guy yet and I’m kind of curious, so… enlighten me?” 

Arthur leans closer, suggestively, grinning, “Is that an offer?” 

Rolling his eyes, Matthew elbows him and hears a little sound from the other, “Fuck off, you know what I mean. Have a fling, Artie, you deserve it. You’ve been lonely long enough. I hope,” he sees Arthur’s raised brow and saves himself, “Well, I think. You don’t tell me things like these.” 

Remembering Oscar isn’t pleasant and Arthur downs most of his drink before admitting, “Yea. Sorry ‘bout that. I did have that one guy. But it was mostly physical,” before it got a little too emotional on the other’s part. 

Matthew doesn’t pry, much to Arthur’s (grateful) surprise, and shrugs, “I’m not really trying to get into any kind of a relationship. Everyone else seems to really want someone but… I don’t think I’m ready for anything super serious right now. Since everyone’s literally kissing anything with lips,” he points to a couple.

They look like they missed supper. 

“I find it weird how when I’m at school no one even looks at me, but today— god, you have no idea how many girls came onto me. I was quite shocked. I had to re-hook a bra. Thank god it took me a second,” he mumbles, motioning to the girl who had such luck. 

Arthur cringes and finishes his drink, “Hey, today is your day. You’re in the spotlight. Do whatever you want.” 

“Not really into being in the spotlight. Kind of ironic how I’m saying that at my birthday party. Is that hypocritical?” 

“Not really. I don’t know these things,” Arthur laughs, wrapping his arm around Matthew to give him a friendly squeeze of reassurance, “Least she was cute.” 

“Hey, you can still appreciate a sexy girl, I’m impressed, Chris Crocker,” Matthew snickers and Arthur gives him a slap on the arm, huffing.

He then adds, “Fuck it, Art,” the amount of nicknames they have for each other are ridiculous, “It’s my birthday. That means I’m allowed to say whatever I want,” he holds up his stereotypical red cup and Arthur watches half of the drink spill. 

“You’re drunk already, you fucking lightweight,” Arthur laughs obnoxiously, clutching at his stomach before giving a loud, rude burp, “But yea. It is your birthday. Happy birthday, Matt.” 

“Thanks man,” Matthew grins, “C’mon. Let’s get hammered.” 

“Is that really the true goal of this party. I never saw that coming,” Arthur replies in monotone, and looks at the kitchen counter to choose his next spirit. 

He grabs the nearest bottle of rum. It’s the only one he can chug without wanting to shoot himself in between the eyes immediately afterwards. 

Red cup and honey-coloured bottle touch in a small ‘cheers’, and after the clink, both chug until they gasp for air, and both burst into childish laughter. Matthew yells ‘Happy Birthday’ to himself, practically screeching, making Arthur feel as if he wet himself from laughing too hard. 

The two teens are laughing, but the sound slowly drowns in the music as they feel the alcohol seep in, and Arthur grabs Matthew’s bicep to bring him to the imaginary dance floor nearby. It’s nice, despite the booming music, and it’s strangely calming to Arthur as he watches Matthew talk and laugh to other people. 

He’s pleasantly surprised that this might be the one party he doesn’t want to leave. 

Arthur keeps his thank you silent and closes his eyes to enjoy the rare moment.

***

Arthur realizes it’s gotten too far once Matthew strips his shirt off after climbing onto a slippery table, and falls face first to the ground after one pathetic grind that the crowd screams at. His sight is already hazy as he tries to help Matthew up, but the birthday boy curses softly before falling asleep. Or passing out—Arthur can never tell.

The floor is still chaotic, and Arthur feels his head start to ring in a small warning, and he escapes the scene, tripping on whatever he’s tripping on the stairs, right to the balcony. Pushing the translucent sliding door open weakly, he hears himself make a noise of surprise at the reveal of a smoking Francis Bonnefoy. 

The man turns around abruptly at the sound of the door closing, but sighs in relief at the sight of Arthur, “God, you scared me there. Thought it was some random kid.” 

“I… Thought you weren’t going to be here,” Arthur mumbles, trying to sound as sober as he can, and he slowly palms his way to be slightly closer. 

“Yea, me neither,” Francis takes a long drag of his cigarette before putting it out, and lighting another, “But my date didn’t go well so I decided to come home after bringing him home so. Cig?” 

Arthur shakes his head at the offer, feeling his smile widen as he sighs in relief, and leans against the railing. He gives a loud laugh, and Francis glances at him as he says happily, “Good.” 

Feeling slightly offended at the tone, Francis leans closer and asks, “What do you mean by ‘good’?” 

He stops smiling, and turns his head slowly, almost too dramatically to the older man, “Really?” He gives him a look. 

It’s been a while since Francis has been this confused, and he reaches towards Arthur to touch his forehead with his hand to check his temperature; Arthur freezes, eyes wide at the touch, and watches Francis pull away to mumble in concern, “… Little too hot.” 

“Oh, fuck you, Mr. Bonnefoy,” Arthur finally blurts, covering his face with both of his pale, shaky hands. 

“Excuse me, Arthur?” Francis laughs, still very much confused, “What did I do! God, you are so drunk.” 

Arthur watches the other chuckle to himself, shaking his head in endearment; he takes the same hand Francis used earlier, and places it on his burning cheek, closing his eyes just to take in the moment.

This time Francis is the one to freeze, “… Are you high?” He whispers.

Arthur laughs and shakes his head, “No. I just like someone that I really, really shouldn’t.”

He can see the moment Francis finally understands, and he feels the air’s coldness upon his now palm-less cheek. Francis apologizes and looks away. The guilt is evident in his gaze. 

“… Is it really that bad that I like you, Mr. Bonnefoy?” 

“… Arthur, it’s not the best idea—”

He swears loudly and Francis stops himself, listening to the teen, “I just— Fuck! Honestly, I thought I’d get over it too, but no, turns out I had to have fucking feelings that just shit all over the fucking logic of it all. I like you, Mr— Francis, I like you a lot,” he’s breathless by now, and he covers his face again, adding, “… You have no idea how good it feels to just… say that.” 

“… The two of us have a lot in common, and we don’t even have that big of a gap— fine, there’s a huge gap, but we haven’t hit the twenty mark yet, so fuck the age gap. We have a connection, and I know you must think I’m fucking crazy, but I can feel it in my fucking blood, and, and— and I don’t think you do, and that really fucking hurts, and— and— Fuck,” Arthur hasn’t sworn so much in a long time, but he reveals his face, his slightly watery eyes, and Francis’s solemn look at his confession. 

“… I’m… Very surprised, for one,” Francis says, sighing as he runs a hand through his hair and realizes he needs some wine for this occasion, “… Do you really think you like me or— is it some sort of twisted admiration thing…?” 

“… If that’s what you want it to be, then whatever,” he grumbles in response, “I hope I forget all of this tomorrow or I’ll shoot myself. I don’t have a fucking gun, do you?” 

Francis ignores him, and takes a long, hard stare at his cigarette packet before lighting another, “… You know, I do like you, Arthur. But I’m afraid it’s not… the way you do. And I’m sorry— it’s just… Arthur, you don’t know how flattered I am at this, I mean… You’re a handsome, way-too-young man that deserves better. You at least deserve a man your age who can… Understand you better, I suppose. It won’t be hard for you, I promise, just look at yourself.” 

Arthur scoffs, “You’ve got to fucking joking.” 

“About?” 

“All that.” 

“I’m not,” Francis laughs and takes another puff. 

“… I cannot believe you’re lying to me right now— are you taking the fucking piss out of this situa— thank you,” he takes the cigarette that’s handed to him, and waits for Francis to light it. 

The end of his cigarette is dipped into the soft fire, and it starts to burn as Francis says, “Come on. I wouldn’t joke about something so serious to you. Do you really think I’m that kind of a person? To be honest, Arthur, this wouldn’t work out for two major reasons. You are my son’s best friend. I also am not romantically interested in you, no matter how hot you are. I just— I can’t do this, and you can’t do this either, even if it’s legal. I’m honestly flattered that you chose me to be this… Person for you right now, but I’m sorry. I think we’ll just have to forget about this whole thing and start over, okay?” 

Arthur stares at Francis long and hard before taking a step closer to him, silent. He hears Francis apologize again, and he replies with, “… You think I’m hot?” 

“Jesus, Arthur, that wasn’t the point—what are you doing,” Francis is pressed against the railing, looking down at the shorter male who had his arms on either side of Francis’ body, trapping him. 

“You think I’m hot?” He repeats, voice breathy after his tongue slides out to moisten his lips slightly, and he watches Francis’s cheeks turn red. Either in shock or embarrassment. 

“That… is highly inappropriate,” Francis mumbles, wanting to push the other away, but he can’t seem to bring himself to do anything. He can’t take advantage of a drunk person. 

Great things came with being drunk, Arthur thinks to himself as his confidence level soars, and he leans in to close the distance between them, lips pressing gently onto Francis’s unresponsive, tight ones. He can feel Francis’s stubble graze his own chin, and he lets out a small laugh at the sensation. 

“Fuck, how are you so hot?” Arthur mutters against the others neck, giving the frozen man a few kisses, “I honestly never thought I’d meet a DILF in real life, you know. Honestly.” 

“Arthur—please, you can’t do this—I can’t do this,” Francis places his hands on both of Arthur’s own, pushing him away gently. 

Flicking them away, Arthur makes a sound resembling a growl, making Francis’s eyes widen and his chest suddenly tighten. He feels slightly lightheaded as Arthur pulls Francis close again—“Jesus!”—and goes in for another kiss. 

Forgetting that he’s still a man, Francis groans at the touch, and feels slightly limp. Arthur stops himself from yelling in joy as the Frenchman finally responds, kissing back without hesitation. Both his arms slink around Arthur to hold him tight, before one hand reaches down to give his rump a hearty squeeze. Arthur breathes in sharply.  
Francis forgets how good it felt to give into temptation. 

He also forgets how terrible the consequences could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading x  
> comments and kudos are highly appreciated x  
> -greyfortress


	6. PART [VI]

PART [VI]

 

          Francis's eyes open, and he automatically knows that something is very, very wrong. Looking to his side, he sees Arthur curled up to his torso, and his heart soars for one second before it drowns in guilt. He murmurs a small curse under his lips, and his memory decides to show him what happened last night. Thankfully, nothing too out of hand was done, yet Francis mentally beats himself for even person his body close to the others.

The boy grumbles in his sleep, causing Francis to freeze, and slowly tilts his head to watch Arthur's chest heave up and down. He can't help but smile at the endearing sight of Arthur licking his lips sleepily, turning slightly to be even closer to Francis's warmth.

Francis sees himself in Arthur. It's a strange concept, but Francis understands how Arthur must've felt last night. He remembers Arthur's furious tone, yet his gaze that showed his fear. Confessions were never easy, especially when directed to a person of the same gender, with at least a twenty year gap between the two.

Maybe that's why he's even slightly interested in the younger man, Francis wonders as his fingers reach down to gently brush a short strand of hair away from Arthur's forehead. He notices the minuscule ridges near the edge of Arthur's nose, showing his teenage years have come and gone. They are still slightly red; he fights the urge to give Arthur's nose a little poke. Chapped lips, long, dark lashes, slight stubble on the edge of his jaw--Francis is captivated by everything, even the slow breathing that comes out of the others parted lips. 

Francis wants to kiss him again.

Everything stops, and Francis looks up at the ceiling, disgusted by his own feelings, and wriggles away from Arthur. The boy lets out a tiny noise of discomfort, but manages to curl up again, foetal position, and is right back to sleep.

Watching Arthur finally turn still, Francis rubs at his eyes to get rid of the sleep, and turns to leave the room. He reaches the balcony and finds his pack of cigarettes disregarded on the floor due to last nights... shenanigans. Kneeling down, he picks them up, and thankfully, the lighter is still in the pack.

It doesn't take him long to finish the cigarette, eyes stuck to the same spot on the balcony, where the two had their affairs. 

 

* * *

 

          Arthur wakes up in agony, his eyes squinting as the light peeks through the window's blinds, and he slowly sits up, his head screaming at his decisions last night. Then he truly begins to want to scream, yet his mouth opens in a silent cry for help as he covers his face with both of his hands-- how could he have done such a thing? Matthew was going to rip him a new one, Arthur was sure. The memories flash in his head, and his skull throbs with guilt. 

Francis's arms were around him, wound tightly as they kissed until they both fell out of breath. In the man's lap sat Arthur, lips parted, glistening, and Francis gave him another peck before giving him a hug. Arthur can't remember what Francis looked like at that moment, and he leans back before realizing he's by himself on the bed.

What else had they done?

Arthur tries to pick out all the memories, but his head was spinning too fast, and he huffs to himself, his fingers now rubbing at his burning temples to try and soothe his headache. It only becomes worse as his mind fills with what Francis will say later about last night--he only wishes that he won't be confronted. Arthur believes that he'll break if that ever happens. His heart aches, and he looks to the window. He wonders what time it is.

"You awake?" 

The door opens to reveal the victim of last night's attack, and Arthur feels his face pale at the sight of Francis, who walks in with an innocent smile. He had to remember. He must have remembered. 

Being hesitant, Arthur finally nods, and instantly regrets the movement--"Yea, I-I don't feel so good though."

"Of course you don't feel so good, you drank so much last night," Francis scolds in a soft voice, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, "Do you remember anything?" he adds casually.

And here it goes. You either say yes, and face the truth, or lie, and maybe Francis will let you off that rusted, disgusting hook. Arthur looks up to meet eyes with the other, and he bites the inside of his cheek.

"... No. No, all I know is I hurt everywhere. Do you know what happened?" 

_Yes, I remember everything. I remember your eyes staring holes into my own, I remember your warm lips on my own, and I remember enjoying it. And I remember never feeling as guilty than I have than at that moment._

"No, I found you passed out on the balcony and I brought you here. Sorry," Francis lies through his pearly whites, showing Arthur a sympathetic smile, but his chest is aching at his own words.

Neither of them can feel the others guilt. 

Arthur, again, now has two options. Either lie to himself and believe that Francis is telling the truth, and all of Arthur's nightmares were fictional, or realize that Francis is lying for his own sake--don't be selfish; he's doing it for himself. 

Not everything is about your relationship with him. Or lack thereof, Arthur sarcastically adds in his thoughts. 

"... That's a shame," Arthur finally answers, and smiles lifelessly to himself, "... Ow, god," he covers his face again, his thumbs massaging his temples as Francis watches. 

The man reaches for the doorknob and twists it, opening the door after saying, "I'll go grab you some water and some aspirin, alright? You should rest today." 

"Thank you." 

Once Francis closes his door behind him, Arthur feels his throat tighten up, and unwanted tears well in his eyes. He lies down again, using the sheets to cover not only his trembling, pained body, but also his face.

He kissed him. He kissed Francis Bonnefoy. He kissed Francis Bonnefoy his best friend's fucking father. Arthur finally understands how it feels like to sell your soul to Satan himself.

 

* * *

   

          It's been a full week since the incident, and Francis wakes up from another night filled with dreams of Arthur Kirkland, lying in his bed, wanton and willing. Pulling up the sheets to reveal his shame, he groans and shakes his head. Come on. It's been a week. Don't act like a teenager who just had his first wank, and finally understands what lust feels like.

Checking his phone, Francis's eyes widen in horror when he realizes it's noon and he hasn't even cooked anything for his own son--jumping out of bed, the father puts on a pair of sweatpants and runs downstairs after putting on his slippers, and bumps right into his son.

Oh no, it wasn't him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Bonnefoy," Arthur says after his gasp of surprise, and he feels his cheeks go pinker in colour, "I... Good afternoon." 

The same shade of pink goes to Francis's own cheeks, as he is suddenly very self-aware, and he says, "O-Oh. Hello, Arthur... What brings you here?" 

From the living room, Matthew yells, "He's here 'cause I wanted to game with him!" 

"I... didn't know you liked gaming," Francis mutters, looking down at Arthur, who isn't even trying to hide avoiding his sight. 

"... I'm not very good," Arthur replies, and takes a step back for Francis to move. 

He's slightly confused as to why Arthur won't even look at him, then understands that he's only wearing sweatpants. Francis's mouth opens to explain his half-nudity, but Arthur quickly turns and runs to the bathroom upstairs.

Francis sighs and runs a hand through his hair, walking to the kitchen after asking what Matthew would like to eat. Guess he'll make three portions.

Or just two. Francis doesn't feel hungry anymore.

At least not for food.

He can feel his face redden at his own thoughts, and he slaps himself on both sides of his face, mentally calming himself down before deciding that he should really put a shirt on. 

Francis bumps into Arthur again before he goes to his own bedroom, and he catches Arthur looking at his own bedroom's door.

"... Is something the matter?" Francis asks, shaking Arthur from his own imagination, and their eyes meet. 

It's a long and hard stare before Arthur looks away, shaking his head, "No, it's nothing. I'm just remembering stuff," he chuckles lightly.

"What stuff?" Francis asks a little too quickly, and his arms cross against his chest, covering it. He adds, "Why?"

Arthur's head practically snaps up to look at Francis, his eyes wide.

"You know what--" Arthur's voice is just a tad shaky.

Should he really say?

Francis laughs awkwardly, his hand reaching to rub the back of his neck. He could feel his fucking insides cringing at this. 

"Ah, well--I need to go and get a shirt," he mumbles, and he opens the door, walking into his room until he hears something he never thought he would hear.

With a small voice, Arthur says, "Francis, I'm sorry." 

Francis turns almost instantly, but Arthur is already dashing down the staircase, and he sighs, rubbing his stubble lightly. Why did this shit have to happen to him? What did he do to deserve this? 

"Hey, I get to choose Luigi this time, I like him better than Mario--You alright, man?" Matthew asks Arthur after he plops down next to him, cheeks still showing a pink hue. 

"Yea, I'm fine," he reassures his friend and takes the controller, "Dammit, you gave me Peach?" 

"I'm going to _ruin_ you," Matthew laughs, already starting their fourth round. 

 

* * *

 

           The trio have a nice and relaxing dinner, with the news on television, the noise helping the silence they have. Arthur and Francis are deliberately avoiding each other's eyes, and Matthew is completely oblivious, eyes focusing on the television itself. 

Arthur honestly wants to use the spoon to gouge his own eyes out of their sockets as his mind is filled with images of the table, just like this, but without Mathew. Wit some candles in the middle of the dining table, some wine for the two lovers. Arthur is easily reminded of how 'gay' he really is when thoughts like these floor his imagination. He finally looks at the Frenchman who finishes his meal, and leans back into his chair. 

Their eyes meet again, but this time, neither looks away. Arthur isn't as shy, and he points to Francis, then to the edge of his own lip. Francis understands the amateur sign language and his tongue flicks out to get whatever it was still stuck to his lip.

Feeling his stomach do a flip, Arthur gulps and shakes his head, mouthing, 'Other side.'

Tongue darting to said side, Francis stares at Arthur, eyebrows furrowed, 'Got it?' he mouths back.

Arthur can't help but roll his eyes in annoyance as the crumb remains on the edge of Francis's lips--well, more like almost on his cheek. He feels himself scoot to the side of his seat, leaning forward, and reaches to wipe the crumb off with his thumb.

Eyes wide in surprise, Francis stiffens as Arthur moves away, then wipes his thumb on his own napkin. He won't look at Francis, but the older man can see the redness on his cheeks. 

"God, I hate Donald Trump. He's such an asshole, I swear to god... None of the candidates seem that great either, to be honest, but hey, none of our business, eh? We're in England," Matthew exclaims, eyes still on the screen, changing Francis's gaze to him instead, "But anythings better than Trump." 

The two of them slump in their seats in relief knowing that Matthew did not see any of what had just happened. 

 

* * *

 

          Francis receives a text hours later his son's friend leaves, whilst he's in bed, scrolling down FaceBook. He doesn't check it until he's about to go to bed. 

 

From: Arthur Kirkland   
To: Francis Bonnefoy

can i see you tomorrow? i'd like to talk to you

 

From: Francis Bonnefoy  
To: Arthur Kirkland

OK text me where and when asap

 

          Arthur puts his phone on his bedside table and curls up under his sheets. Francis turns off the lights and closes his eyes. Neither of them can sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reviews and kudos highly appreciated x   
> also if its not obvious by now, i will update this whenever i can x sorry for the sudden, yet late updates 
> 
> greyfortress x


	7. Chapter 7

PART [VII]

 

Sliding himself onto his seat, Francis starts his car after buckling his seatbelt and turning the radio on. He changes the channel until he hears some classical music, and Francis leans back into the comfortable leather seat, driving smoothly. He's meeting Arthur today.

The young man gave him the details yesterday, and Francis remembers the first thought that went through his head as he saw the address of the cafe. One, why was it so fucking far, and two, oh, I know why it's so fucking far.

Both Francis an Arthur can't risk people they know finding out about their littler rendezvous. Or even just disturbing them.

Hearing his GPS finally say the words 'Take a left at the next turn to your destination', Francis feels his heart sink and he takes to the nearest parking lot to park his car. 

He only leaves his car after checking his already silky-looking hair and perfectly trimmed stubble, and puts both his keys and wallet in his back pocket. He brings a scarf just in case he becomes cold.

The cafe is just around the corner, and Francis walks in, hearing the little ding from the bell that is hit gently by the glass door. Looking around, his eyes automatically shift to the short-haired blonde practically being swallowed by a soft one-person couch, and he can't help but chuckle in amusement and sit in front of Arthur, who is busy using his phone.

"Hey," Francis says, waving his hand in front of Arthur to make him look up.

He silently enjoys the pink flush that coats Arthur's slightly freckled cheeks by himself. 

"Hey," Arthur graces Francis with a soft smile and puts his phone in his front jean pocket, "Was it hard to find? The cafe, I mean." 

"Not a bit," Francis picks up the menu to give it a casual glance, "Harder for you, since you're not driving." 

Shrugging, Arthur laughs lightly, "It's fine, I've been here before, once." 

The laughter stops and the two look at each other for a few seconds before Francis takes the bullet and says, "So. What did you want to talk to me about?" He acts as if he doesn't know anything.

"... Straight to it, right?" 

"Straight to it." 

Arthur runs a hand through his hair and takes in a deep breath, "I thought it was a bad idea to even... you know, dwell on the idea that we should even _talk_ about this. One to one, but... I need to get this... out of my system?" Arthur beats around the bush. 

"... 'You do remember what happened'--is that what you want to say?" Francis replies.

"I was going to ask why you lied about that. But I can kind of think of three thousand billion good enough reasons why you would, to be honest," he admits.

Francis purses his lips, and instead of replying to the other, he raises his hand to order himself a cappuccino; he can feel Arthur's eyes stuck onto him as he orders, but he keeps his posture. 

"Can you at least be honest with me now? Like... completely?" Arthur adds bitterly, "We both know nothing is going to happen." 

"You sure you want honesty from me?" Francis asks, happy that his cappuccino arrives quick and steamy hot. He gives it a few gentle blows before taking a sip. 

Arthur is quiet, but he nods his approval, and laces his own fingers together to show that he was alright with listening.

"I'm going to be blunt about this, Arthur," Francis can already feel how bad this is going to be, "And I really honestly hope you don't get offended or... shocked or anything. I don't know," even Francis is embarrassed now and he can't meet Arthur's eyes. 

"You're so young. You're _so_ young. Way too young for me, and that's the main problem here, you haven't even hit the twenty mark, and yes, I know you're legal, but just because we _can_ doesn't mean we _should_." 

Francis can practically feel the desperation oozing out of Arthur's pores, and he decides to ignore it before his chest begins to hurt. 

"I... I wouldn't mind having a small relationship with you," Francis sees Arthur's face light up only slightly, and he continues, "Relationship as in... I do think we have this thing, and we kind of click with each other, as you said that night," Francis mutters.

"I didn't think we would end up to that point, as I wasn't too... Well, I didn't pay you much attention, I would say," he sees Arthur wince, "Okay, well more than the usual attention I'd pay for another one of Matthew's friends, but... after that night, then yea. Yea, I paid more attention."

Arthur finally breaks his silence, and pipes up, "To what?"

"Huh?"

"Paid more attention to what?" 

Francis is taken aback by the question, and he actually shuts up for a few seconds. "Uh. What you _do_ , really," he scratches his head lightly, "When you come over, or just... the little things you do. And I fucking _hate_ how I have feelings--inappropriate feelings that I shouldn't have as a _father_ ," he stops, craves a cigarette for a short moment. 

"... I don't... I don't blame you at all. I know it's just you having a little phase. A daddy kink, I suppose," he laughs, "But Arthur, I'm an _adult_. I have responsibilities." 

Holding up a hand, Arthur stops Francis from continuing, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but can I say something?" 

"Yes. Of course." 

The teen reaches for his drink and takes a sip and a sigh before saying, "It's not a phase, Mr. Bonnefoy," his eyes are glued to his beverage, "I thought it was wrong too. But ever since the day you drove me back home and actually talked to me I really wanted to--yea. And I do not have a daddy kink," he laughs too, "I haven't fantasized about calling you 'daddy' as we're fucking, because that's fucking weird." 

"... Fantasizing about us having sex is pretty weird too, isn't it?" he adds causally, an watches Francis's cheeks redden, almost admitting that he'd done the same. 

Why are teenagers so much more confident in what they had to say?

No responsibilities. Right. 

"Yes, I know I'm young and all that... So I know this isn't going to work. I'm just... I feel like there's tension between us now? Like, we used to be friends, and I really liked that and I'm sorry that I've made this thing happen just because I was a stupid drunk," Arthur mutters.

"I'm here to say I'm sorry," his voice goes soft. 

"Don't be. It's alright. We all make mistakes, we can just learn from them," Francis reassures. 

Arthur turns coy and begins to flirt, "It wasn't a mistake for me. I'd do it again in a second, but consent is important to me." 

"Uh uh uh, stop right there, mister," Francis holds up a finger. 

"Sorry, couldn't help it," a laugh leaves Arthur's lips and he breathes out in relief, "... Thank you for coming out to meet me though. I can finally fully give up on--this," he motions to the little gap between the two of them.

Francis feels a disappointed dagger stab him through the chest for a short second.

Instead of agreeing, Francis goes with, "I mean, Matthew would kill the both of us." 

The two laugh in harmony, the tension and awkwardness finally evaporating between them.

"That's definitely true," Arthur says breathlessly from laughing too hard, and looks at Francis, "... Shame."

_Shame._

"Anyways!" Francis stops himself from revealing too much and finishes his drink, "Want to hang out with an old guy or do you have plans?" 

"... Actually, I was wondering..." 

"Mhm?" 

Arthur's cheeks are pink, "Um. I know I said I was going to give up completely, and, and I am, but I feel like... uh... you owe me?" 

"What?" 

"Yea. You owe me at least one date. At least one," Arthur's voice is so soft that Francis can barely hear what he's saying. 

Arthur's hand reaches up to cover his cheek. He looks away.

"... What, what would you like to do then?" 

Francis watches Arthur's head snap to face him with those bright green eyes and a beaming smile.

He's doomed.

 

* * *

 

They don't mention Matthew once during their date. Their fingers are locked and Arthur slowly memorizes the small and almost unnoticeable calluses on Francis's fingers. He must've been writing a lot. Something put pressure there. 

They talk about Arthur's plans for university. They talk about Francis's plans for his own cafe which will open in a few years time. They talk about themselves, and the two are finally able to learn about each other. 

It's a warm feeling.

However, with the night creeping upon them, the coldness sets, and Francis moves closer to Arthur unconsciously, "Oh, it's getting chilly," he chuckles at an inner thought and adds, "Netflix and chill." 

Rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh, Arthur sarcastically says, "Definitely." 

"What! I thought the kids were into that stuff! Memes, right?" 

"Don't even say that fucking word again, oh my god," Arthur wheezes. 

Francis grins and gives him a reassuring nudge before walking closer to the carpark where he parked his car earlier in the late morning. Francis knows he really shouldn't be keeping his hand touching Arthur's own, but he stays still and pliant for Arthur. 

He stupidly feels the want to take a photo of their hands to commemorate this day.

The day still has to end, and the two finally pull away when Francis leaves to sit in the drivers seat, and Arthur next to him.

They're silent.

"Thank you," Arthur says once they arrive at the front of how house, and begins to unbuckle himself, "I know it was a weird... request, but honestly, thank you," he mumbles softly, and leans over to give Francis's cheek a goodbye kiss.

"... Goodnight, Arthur."

"... Would it be bad if I asked you to come in?"

"I... don't think that'd be a good idea, sweetheart," Francis can't help but add the last fucking word.

"Good point. Goodnight, Francis."

"Goodnight, Arthur." 

 

* * *

 

 

Francis doesn't see Arthur off to university, and he day he receives Matthew's text saying 'he just left! hope he has a good flight x' he realizes it's the last he'll ever see Arthur.

He instantly regrets everything. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for being patient x  
> uni has finally started and i have been busy so i apologize x  
> hopefully i can post more often though  
> reviews and kudos are greatly appreciated 
> 
> thank you Annie_R_Key for the review x  
> \- greyfortress xx


	8. PART VIII

PART [VIII]

[three years later]

                  It’s been open for a year now, and Francis’s cafe business is as popular as it can get. Which isn’t too bad. Francis is an attractive man, and attractive men attract customers, hence the sudden vast amount of photos of him being shared on FaceBook, then, now regular, customers deciding to visit the cafe.

At first, Francis was embarrassed by the amount of women and men who would come in just to grab a quick picture, but eventually he got used to it. Now, he welcomes anyone into his humble cafe. With a handsome barista and a calm, relaxing atmosphere with soft jazz, his cafe is a sure hit.

The man watches a couple walk into his cafe, and he leans across the counter, resting his head on the palm of his hand as the girlfriend laughs at what her—what seems to be—boyfriend gives her manicured hand a squeeze.

Francis misses having a relationship.

Yes, he’d had a few through the years, but the latest boyfriend of his was broken up with about a year ago, and Francis is now on the hunt for a new lover.

However, with the coffee business, and Matthew’s university tuition fees abroad, Francis needs to stay in work, and needs someone who will understand that he doesn’t have so much free time to roam around.

He needs someone mature.

Who also, probably, won’t mind some coffee dates along the line.

Thankfully, Francis isn’t really in need of too much money since Matthew, being the smart one in the family, worked hard for his scholarship—giving Francis more reason to also work harder at his own job.

“Soy cappuccino, please,” a middle-aged man says at the counter, shaking Francis from his little daydream.

“Of course. That’ll be two pound fifty.”

“Thank you.”

Francis eyes the man up and down, noticing the little details of his business suit, and the—oh. The ring on his left ring finger. Guess he was the only single-and-ready-to-mingle man in the cafe. Oh well.

Handing the finished coffee to said man, Francis smiles as he thanks him, and watches the man walk back to his wife and two children.

Definitely married then.

Francis receives a text and pulls out his phone to see that Matthew sent a few photos of his new wood piece he was working on. He smiles, proudly, and texts him back quickly, telling his son how beautiful the piece is.

“Good afternoon, Francis,” his typing stops at the smooth sound, and Francis looks up to see Jay, a regular customer.

A very attractive regular customer who had been flirting with him for the past few weeks. Francis isn’t interested in Jay, to be honest, but he likes the attention from a good-looking, younger man. He enjoys the power.

“Good afternoon, Jay. The usual?” he replies, sliding his phone into his back pocket.

“You’re the best,” Jay flashes a handsome smile, and Francis can’t help but look down at the register and feel the edges of his lips hitch up.

Strangely, he feels young again.

Francis’s gaze turns back to Jay, “That’ll be two pound forty,” and waits for the flirtation that comes a quick second later.

“It’s worth more since you make it, you know.”

“You’re so cheesy sometimes it makes me cringe,” Francis says sarcastically, a smile on his lips as he takes the coins.

Jay, however, won’t let go of his hand after giving him the coins, and Francis’s brows furrow in confusion. This is new.

“… Jay?”

“I was wondering if you were free tonight.”

Francis’s eyes widen, and he bites his upper lip to feel the slight pain—ah, yes, this was actually happening.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“… For dinner and drinks afterwards. Yea. A date,” Jay’s little sheepish smile is endearing, and Francis’s chest warms.

Good enough.

Pulling away, Francis reaches out to Jay and says, “Give me your phone. I’ll put down my number.”

“Huh?”

“… You can text me the time and location later,” Francis decides to grace him with a wink.

Jay beams and does as he’s told. Leaning over the counter, he adds, “I can’t wait.”

“I’ll get your coffee now,” Francis laughs.

Jay watches him leave to start making his coffee, and breathes out sharply in admiration for Francis for keeping in such good shape. Little does he know, Francis sways his hips just slightly on purpose.

 

***

 

                  Their dinner makes Francis understand for sure that Jay isn’t what he’s looking for. As Jay talks to him with a man-made suave tone, Francis doesn’t listen, and watches his body language. He didn’t seem too nervous. The tapping of his finger on the table gives him away, and Francis watches Jay lick his lips—Francis wonders if Jay is thinking about what their kisses will be like.

Jay is attractive. Very attractive for a young man, and has a man’s body, but a boy’s mind. Francis can see that Jay is only looking for a short hookup. Not that Francis isn’t into a fling, but he’s slightly disappointed that Jay isn’t as boyfriend-material as he once thought.

They finish their dinner date, and Jay wraps his arm around Francis’s waist once they’re out of the restaurant.

“So where are we heading to now?” Francis asks, liking the warmth from Jay.

He leans closer, and replies, “A nice gay bar. I’ll treat you to a drink—it’s really close by.”

“Sounds nice,” Francis says softly.

The second they walk into the bar, Francis hears smooth RnB, and he feels his lips curl into an excited smile. It’s been quite a while since he last went to a bar, and he feels slightly nervous.

“Two Harvey’s Blue Labels, please,” Jay orders, and leans against the counter, mirroring Francis’s body, “You like beer?”

He didn’t mind it, “Mhm. It’s not too bad.”

“You’ll love this one, I promise,” Jay reassures, and takes a step closer after paying and giving Francis his drink, “Cheers.”

They touch glasses, creating a small ‘clink!’, and both take sips of the beer. Francis blinks, pleasantly surprised by the taste, and he gives the other an approving nod, causing Jay to laugh.

“Told you,” he teases, taking another long sip.

Francis rests his chin on his fist, elbow on the counter as he looks at Jay, and says, “So. It’s been a nice date.”

“It has.”

“… Is there anything you want to get from this, then?” Francis asks, looking into Jay’s eyes as if he could tell whether or not he’d lie.

“… Honestly, Francis, I’m not looking for a relationship. At least—at least not right now,” he says, “I’m not saying you’re not great, because you really are—and after this night, now that I’ve gotten to know you better, I’m kind of rethinking everything…”

“Well, I just want to say that I’m kind of with you there. I’m not too sure about relationships right now, but we can… have some fun,” Francis says, his tone turning flirtatious, and Jay grins at him.

“… Fun sounds fun,” he flirts back, and takes another step closer.

Francis can see his eyes looking down at his own lips.

He’s going to make him work for it, though. Francis likes a nice chase.

They end up chatting for a bit longer, their knees close, and Francis laughing at what Jay says, teasing him from time to time about his—what was it—bottle cap collection.

“It’s not that lame!” Jay gives him a little, playful nudge.

“It’s terribly boring,” Francis wheezes, finishing his now fourth drink.

Everything’s a little slower than usual, and Francis realizes he needs to stop drinking before he’ll actually become drunk. Out of a ten, he’s a solid five, with ten being piss drunk.

“Maybe you can come over and actually look at it. _Then_ you can judge my collection,” Jay says, putting down his drink.

“When would I do that, then?”

“Tonight, if you’d like.”

The suggestion catches Francis off guard, and he’s suddenly more sober than before, and his lips part in surprise.

Nice segue.

Francis puts his empty glass on the counter, and reaches over to touch Jay’s cheek lightly before muttering under his breath, “Sounds like a plan.”

Jay watches him, eyes hooded, and he places a hand on Francis’s hip, thumb caressing it gently, “… Can I kiss you?”

Francis wants to laugh in amusement, but he keeps it in, and gives Jay a nod. He likes that. A man who asks. Even if the sexual tension in the air is so thick you can taste it.

Their lips press together for a short two seconds, and they pull away, only to grab at each other, and finish what they said they would do.

Thankfully, this bar isn’t short on partners who kiss, and the two aren’t too obvious—they don’t seem to notice that people stare at them.

However, after a long minute of snogging, Jay gives Francis’s bum a nice squeeze, and the latter chuckles, pulling away, “Cheeky.”

He’s about to go back to kissing Jay, but Jay looks over Francis’s shoulder, brows furrowed, and Francis asks, “What’s up?”

“… This guy keeps staring at you. Even when it’s obvious you’re with me tonight,” Jay replies with an annoyed huff; he tightens his hold on Francis, making him laugh.

“I’m flattered.”

“He’s just jealous I’m with the hottest guy in the bar,” Jay adds, giving Francis a quick peck.

And that’s the sentence making Francis decide that he’ll have sex with Jay tonight.

Grinning back at the smug man, Francis purrs, “I like the way you think,” and pulls him in for another tension-filled kiss; he can feel Jay melt against him.

However, luck isn’t on his side and Francis feels something poke his back. Groaning, Francis reluctantly leaves Jay’s lips alone, and turns around to curse this motherfucker out—his eyes widen, and he stifles the urge to rub at his eyes. It can’t be.

“… Mr. Bonnefoy.”

Despite all the alcohol in his system, Francis’s face pales for a long second, and he realizes who he’s looking at. His jaw drops slightly, and the two are silent for much too long before Jay snaps, “You know this man?”

“Um—Uh,” Francis is shaken out of his daze, and answers, “He’s my son’s best… friend.”

Jay’s eyes widen and Francis remembers how he hasn’t spoken to Jay about his son. Well, Matthew’s existence.

Arthur instantly stammers an apology, “I’m so sorry—I really shouldn’t have—I’ll, uh, god, you haven’t aged at all,” its as if he can’t even see the other man.

“… Excuse me, I’m going to go to the bathroom for a bit,” Jay mumbles, confused, and leaves without another word.

With a nod, Francis doesn’t look back at Jay as he walks off, and is baffled at the sight in front of him. Taller, more built—the same scruffy hair—is that some stubble he detects?

“… You look great,” he breathes out, and finally a smile grows on his face, “God, I haven’t seen you in, in years! How long has it even been?” Francis laughs.

“I dunno, it’s been a while, hasn’t it,” Arthur replies, shoulders sagging in relief at Francis’s reaction, “I’ve haven’t spoken to Matthew in a while either, to be honest, I’d love to see him again—is he still here?”

“No, he’s off to Canada for university, oh, you two are so grown up now,” Francis sighs, running a hand through his hair, “But I’m still here, with my café. And you? Why are you back?”

“… Don’t know, to be honest,” Arthur takes a step forward, reaches out to Francis, who watches him holding his breath, “I really didn’t have anywhere else to go. I had things to do. People to see.”

“You’re still here?” Jay rudely says, appearing from behind Francis, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans, his glare not very subtle.

Pulling away before he can graze Francis’s arm, Arthur says, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”

Francis flushes in embarrassment and quickly shakes his head, “No, no, it’s fine, um—”

“Well, fuck off then,” Jay snaps.

“Jay!” Francis glares at him, and grabs his own coat, “You’re being very rude.”

“He’s the one who was trying to fuck you while I’m obviously with you,” he snarls back, and Francis is taken aback by the difference in character from five minutes ago.

Arthur purses his lips, “… I’ll be leaving then. You haven’t changed your number, right, Francis?” he gives him a little smile, then once again, reaches out, this time giving his bicep a little squeeze.

Francis feels his chest tighten.

Oh no.

Jay grabs Francis and pulls him closer, but Francis pushes him away and says, feeling way more confident than usual due to the drinks, “I’m sorry, but you’re being kind of a huge dick, so I’m going to leave.”

“Also, don’t ever try and ‘manhandle’ me again, you’re not even that strong,” he adds, and grabs Arthur’s arm before dragging him out of the area.

He doesn’t hear Jay swear at the two of them, he only feels the coldness from Arthur’s hand grasping his own, and he feels the breeze from the night once they leave the bar. Then he realizes he pretty much has Arthur’s hand in a hard grip, and he lets go immediately.

Why did he bring him out?

“… He didn’t seem very nice. Didn’t know your type was ‘fucking asshole’,” Arthur chuckles and pulls out a carton of cigarettes, and hands a straight to the other man.

“Didn’t know he was an asshole till literally just now,” he mumbled back, taking the straight and quickly lighting it to take a long drag, still feeling slightly confused by why he brought Arthur out with him.

Arthur watches the fumes go away, and he smiles, almost only to himself, “I’m quite surprised I saw you here. Didn’t know it’d take me so quick.”

“… Huh?”

“Hm?”

“Did you—What—Sorry, I’m confused,” Francis chuckles, and rubs the side of his face, “I’m a little tipsy,” he admits, feeling like he probably should have drank more earlier for this.

“C’mon, lets get you home then. I drove over, so I wasn’t planning on having a drink at all,” Arthur stubs the last bit of his cigarette on the floor, “I’ll give you a lift home. You’ll have to give me the address though.”

Nodding, Francis walks, well, stumbles, towards Arthur, and grabs onto his shirt, “Alright. Thank you.”

He didn’t understand why he was acting like this in the first place, since he wasn’t even drunk. He was a mere level five right now—and he was obviously just trying to grab onto Arthur’s toned arm. He gulped at the thought.

Said arm wraps around Francis and hoists him up, and Francis feels himself breathe out sharply at the sensation, “Oof, c’mon then,” Arthur laughs at the sight and pretty much hauls him to the car, and even buckles him in.

“Thanks. You’ve gotten taller,” Francis remarks softly, snuggling into his seat.

“And you’ve cut your hair. Its still long, but shorter than before. A fresh trim, maybe,” Arthur smiles, starting the car and beginning the drive after putting Francis’s address into the GPS.

“… You’re very observant,” he yawns, keeping his gaze on the other’s face, “You’ve grown some stubble. I didn’t think you’d be able to do that,” he teases.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur grins back, “Not a lot of people thought I would. I still shave though. Unlike _some_ people.”

“Oh shut up, my stubble makes me sexy and you know it,” he scoffs, and continues to stare at Arthur.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Mr. Bonnefoy.”

“And you still call me that, you’re older now, you’re allowed to call me by my first name,” Francis sits up, and scoots slightly closer to him, “… You never did that, if I’m… remembering it right.”

Arthur pulls up to the red light and finally looks back at Francis, “… You’re right. I don’t think I ever have. Francis.”

Everything turns black as Francis squeezes his eyes shut and covers his face, his cheeks feeling heated, the corners of his lips turned up in delight as he just starts to laugh, “It’s so—so strange.” he mumbles against his palms.

Arthur continues to drive, and keeps his eyes back on the road, “Told you.”

“I like it though. You should keep calling me that,” Francis sighs, keeping his hands on his face, “It’s a good strange.”

Laughing lightheartedly, Arthur nods, “… If you want me to.”

It doesn’t take too long before they’re at Francis’s house, and at his front door. “Thank you for driving me home.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good night, Mr—Sorry, Francis.”

Nodding once to show his gratitude, he unbuckled himself and opened the door—he turned back and his lips parted for him to squeeze out, “… Drink?”

“What?” Arthur, confused, raises a brow.

“… Do you… Want to come over for a drink?” Francis says, almost a little too slowly, and has a hesitant smile on.

The car door is still open, and Francis still stands outside, inviting the other, “I mean, its been years. Lets have a— dunno, a drink. I have more beers inside. Or wine. Whatever you prefer.”

Arthur stays silent for a long second before unbuckling his own seatbelt and following Francis into the familiar house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol its been three years since I updated sorry fellas im back tho sort of


End file.
